Precognitive Recognition

written from the imagined perspective of someone else

I don't know about any of those girls that pray to the moon, or talk to the devil- any of that. They might get themselves into something bad. I don't know, but it's just impractical and I don't know what I'd be getting myself into. It's up to you, girl, do what you do. 
I don't think about it because I don't need to. Waves are easier to make when you pretend you're on vacation. He's been on vacation for a while. Seems like it never actually matters where he is, I'm always stuck at home and he's always on vacation. Sun and clouds, indefinite and long-lasting health, people that love him, people that wanted me to love him too, but no one saw what I saw. 
I never wanted to look you in the eyes again.
Who is ever truly ready for college? I was ready to figure out the labyrinth and the precise mathematics under which my mother's wedding ring was sculpted- laser-pointed fate, like some kind of contract was signed as soon as she came into the world. I've tried to find the same thing, but the kryptonite of my generation is the only thing I can use to talk to a soulmate now. I was never interested in getting over my phone anxiety.
Cheek bones. Collar bones. Edges and spine-pricking hunger. Remember when we lived without blood sugar? We both knew we were looking at the same person, exchanging glances. You spoke about the end more often than I could allow myself to ponder, but we had the same thoughts. The rings and stars in your eyes gave it away. Red, faded, can't-tell-if-you-might-actually-be-crying, looking distant while whispering "I love you" to whatever unfortunate player had recently mistaken you for a pawn. You always knew you'd be undetectable under that red, club-floor lighting. You could see their eyes, washing the two of us over. You were addicted to being terrified too. 
Or, you were just hopeful, whatever you want to call it. 
What happened on my birthday is something we're never going to talk about fully. This applies to both of us. 
Can you think of a single holiday that hasn't been saturated by the stench of the highway, ride or die? Can you tolerate the music capitol critics a few years later without needing to leave the party? Can you remember those two frauds, slinking up and down the sidewalk, littered arena (we were skirting necklines)? Can you remember when the joke wasn't a joke? Do you know how many times you've thought about the maverick falling apart, tempted by the dark humor, looking over a balcony, loaded. But only in grey matter, I think. 
Blamed between us in a triad of volatile teenage anger, I had to drag you out. 
You were the friend I always had to push, and when I did, it was like you'd roll away and never stop rolling. Once you knew what it meant to be free, you'd look for the most heinous reason to keep yourself locked away - some kind of delirious Rapunzel that we all knew wasn't within out realm of magic wrongdoing. We had to watch you figure it out on your own so that the rest of us could do the same. Not many of us have the dreams you have.
Better to keep that between the two of us- I'm catholic, and magic was always accessible with restriction. I don't know what it is for a reason. I keep myself in that type of dark, I'll admit it. I like vacation. I've never wanted to know because I've got an insane imagination and it's not time for me to know yet.
There's a thick lack of oxygen between him and I, and I'd like to keep it that way. It isn't a helpful memory.
Let me sleep for just five minutes longer. 
I promise I'll wake up again.